


many times, many meetings

by mahwaha



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied Relationships, Magical Realism, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 00:24:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13155219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahwaha/pseuds/mahwaha
Summary: One day, gutting a Nozomi of trash, Shinsuke will graze this memory with the tips of his fingers: Osamu’s belly laughs gauzy and gossamer amidst the veils of déjà vu. Contentment bookended by Atsumu’s smirk and Aran’s frazzled overreactions. The weight of the ephemeral between his fingers.





	many times, many meetings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [themorninglark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/gifts).



Each day starts like this: Shinsuke comes alive and alert in slow, steady increments until the rush and drone of the train registers. His granny peels open the blind in their carpeted rest cubicle to whatever sights the train offers that day: oily rainbow smears crawling across the outside glass; frothing white masses, pearlescent clouds foaming and breaking across the train’s sides; or sometimes, pitch black with nothing but a reflection to look at in the glass. He and his granny’ll take note no matter what’s out there, then fold up their futons and wait their turn for the floor sweeper with the passengers they share the car with. Then, they leave for the cleaning car: the one forever-stocked with trash bags and dust mops, brushes for the seats, glass cleaners and cloth, and the purple gloves that always make his hands sweat.

Everyone cleans, though not always to Shinsuke’s standards. Some of the passengers are younger, less-experienced, and it’s cathartic to wipe the residue from the leftover lost potential where they leave it on the window’s rim. Or the back of a seat. The floor too, sometimes; it gathers and falls where it will. His granny treats it like worship, scrubbing each train car she passes through with meditative focus and tipping pan after pan of potential into her bags. Each day she wakes up old, but cleaning shakes the years loose from her face; she sweeps those up too, each wrinkle of time, and lets them rest in her bag.

But cleaning lets Shinsuke grow older. Granny says he glows, even while he details the base of each seat for what feels like an eternity. It’s a satisfying eternity, at least, combing up crumbs of what’s forgotten and flicking them into a bag. Everything lost wants to be found. As far as his granny’s smile stretches, everything lost may as well want to be found by him specifically. That’s alright; he hates the thought of leaving any stone - or seat cushion - unturned.

Lost potential rots when left out to sit too long. It’s a waste. Better to find it and invest it in someone new; it’s why he and everyone else who cleans empties their bags into the bins at the end of each car. Those bins, at the end of each day, are emptied into the big bins stored in the cleaning cars. Every clot of lost potential, every wrinkle of time, each dropped or discarded dream - gather enough up, his granny says, and it breathes new life into the train.

What she means, Shinsuke’s found, are new passengers.

He knows because he’s found them in the big bin: kids giggling at the bottom, grown men stuffed and scrunched to fit, alarmed old ladies who weren’t expecting him to empty potential over their heads when he’d been caught up in the swing of his routine. He’d met Aran in the bin at some long, gangly age. Granny’s never said so, but Shinsuke’s sure he came from the same place, shared the same space with lost potential and whatever time others could spare. 

“We’re born with more than we need,” his granny always says. “We’re meant to share with others.”

Today, it’s twins. They’re identical down to the gleams in their eyes, twisting in their seats with Aran scrunched up in the middle of them with a hand dragging down his face. He’s taller today, broader and older-looking with scrubby stubble along his jaw and his lips pressed thin.

“Shoulda left you in the trash can,” Aran sighs, all of the wind in his sails punching out at once. His shoulders drop.

“C’mon, give yourself more credit!” Atsumu says, and oh.

Osamu leans on Aran’s armrest, adolescent and cheeky-playing-reasonable. “Yeah, you’re a better trashman than that.”

Oh. Identical twins. Identical grins. Identical arched eyebrows and zeroed-in attention, and Shinsuke cocks his head to one side while they all catch sight of him where he’d stopped in the aisle. Because he knows them. He knows them, already knew them, and Aran’s twisty frown mirrors that same sentiment back at him. It’s still in him, that soft ‘oh’ haloing warm in his chest, but Shinsuke gathers himself and lets it diffuse through him. 

Reunions feel nice. 

He holds up the trash bags he’d been on his way to toss, nodding down the aisle. “I’ll be back.”

When he passes them, Shinsuke tries for a reassuring nod Aran’s way. Atsumu and Osamu were right, after all; Aran’s as reliable as they come when the bins need emptying.

* * *

For Osamu, Atsumu’s that grating kind of tired that pets a cat backwards. He’s a promise that falls flat, a shitty souffle that always sinks in the middle. He’s hands all over your stuff and a slow-building scream that starts from the hurricane in your belly and erupts all at once. But he’s as constant as Osamu’s heartbeat too, an extra limb. A mountain of accomplishments, ready to pick a fight. An unstoppable force. A reason to keep his legs and lungs burning, to keep pounding forward.

Annoying, too. Annoying like he’s been annoying before Osamu even knew he existed if that’s possible. Feels like it is.

Aran’s a wild spark of grin-splitting awe, first. Larger than life. An idea that Osamu’s never heard before, fresh and electric through his brain. But then Aran’s a punchline, too; the best part of a gag. The first place Osamu’s looking when he wants a laugh while he’s ping-ponging with Atsumu. Aran’s that action-reaction high that keeps Osamu coming back like a fire wanting for fuel. But he’s solid. Always there. Feels like he’s always been there, always will be. It’s a ‘not everything has to change’ kind of comfort, even if there’s no big change threatening Osamu’s foundations in the moment.

If change threatened him at all.

‘Tsumu and Aran both, they’re big. A big, bright pain in his ass and a grand old time, respectively, but they have a lot of weight to throw around in one way or another.

But Kita’s different. Kita’s...Kita’s like fog and the feeling that strikes Osamu when he first sees the guy hauling trash doesn’t fit the atmosphere at all: like he’s caught out and lost somewhere eerie for a second before ‘Tsumu and Aran reel him back in. Kita’s enormous and amorphous, dim and looming. Fog and shadows. Intimidating incarnate. But then he’s somehow, inexplicably, the wobbliest mouth and the wateriest eyes and the sharpest, warmest curl of surprise that Osamu could ever cradle in his guts. 

Doesn’t matter that he’s only just found them: Osamu knows ‘Tsumu in his bones. Knows Aran as well as the words in his mouth. Knows Kita in his gut, and there’s a feeling there that he doesn’t have a name for yet; it’s somewhere between missing and wanting and his stomach trying to make a fist on air.

It’s why he’s not surprised at all when Kita returns with a dust mop for ‘Tsumu and a spray bottle for him. Something about Kita’s always screamed ‘methodical’.

* * *

Shinsuke knows before he’s begun to show them that their performance will be substandard; Atsumu complains more than he cleans and Osamu ignores anything that isn’t sitting out, already on his radar. That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t teach them, however.

Everyone has to contribute. Where individual dedication falters, sheer numbers can pick up the slack. Otherwise, he and his granny would be at it all day.

Since Shinsuke’s dedication has always trumped his numbers, he takes Atsumu and Osamu through every step of car cleaning with a fine-toothed comb while Aran tags along “for the show.” It’s not much of a show; they clean every day, but Aran’s always welcome company. He bears the brunt of the twins’ wisecracks with exasperated energy, goes as far as to chuck a washcloth at Atsumu’s face before they’re done and moving onto settling the twins in.

It’s a long process, overall: instructing, touring, and redirecting on top of redirecting before they find an empty cubicle with two futons folded and stowed. But it’s not unpleasant. Even for Aran’s exasperation, Shinsuke catches the tilt of his head or his smile whenever Atsumu really digs into him for attention, or when Osamu cuts the wind from Atsumu’s sails with a perfect, patient quip. 

By the time Shinsuke returns to his shared rest cubicle, his granny sits prim at the window. It’s all black lacquer out there, but it slithers alongside the train in snaking shapes. Shinsuke lingers on it before his attention rests on his granny’s reflection. She’s younger now, more girlish in spite of the smart bun she’s twisted her hair into - younger still compared to him, old enough to resemble a father. Her smile’s the same as he sinks down beside her, and it’s then that Shinsuke catches sight of the envelope between her hands.

“I met the conductor today,” she says, lit up with it like she’s gone and met the gods themselves. Maybe she has; no one talks about meeting the conductor. No one reaches the back of the train. Shinsuke stares, starts when his granny sets her hand on his knee and squeezes. Her smile colors reassuring. “My stop’s coming up tomorrow. They asked me to take this with me.”

Again, she squeezes his knee. Her other hand thumbs the envelope. It’s unopened, plain past the faint, eggshell blue of the paper and the foreign scrawl filling its face. Reaching, Shinsuke covers her hand with his own, blankets it. Squeezes back.

Throughout his time on the train, Shinsuke had only ever considered the journey; only now does he think of its end.

A single crease wrinkles the space between his brows. Already, he knows what sort of answer she’ll give him, but - “Did they say where you’re stopping?”

And his granny, unwavering in her reverence, turns her smiling eyes back to the window. Laughs, and the sound is so liquid and light. “I suppose I’ll find out once I’m there!”

When he turns toward her, her arms are open and waiting to receive him. The years that flake off of him in the midst of their hug settle back onto her like snow, and then she’s old and he’s young again and clutching her on this train for the first time he can remember. He doesn’t need to say he’ll miss her; she already knows. She doesn’t need to say it, either.

Instead, she lays a kiss onto his hair, smooths it down with one wrinkled hand. “I’ll be waiting there when you find your stop. Now,” she says, pats his cheek as she leans back, “you’ll have to tell me everything when we catch up.”

Shinsuke nods. 

Whether or not he believes it doesn’t matter; he’s familiar with her sentiments and always willing to put himself to task. They’ll find each other or they won’t, but he’ll tell her anything she wants to know if they do. It’s that simple.

If he lays awake a little longer than usual when they settle down to drift...if he tries to memorize all of her different shapes and faces in the dark, well. What good is finding each other later if they don’t recognize each other? Of course he thinks it’s important. Of course he does.

* * *

Each day starts like this: Shinsuke comes alive and alert in slow, steady increments until the rush and drone of the train registers. Once he's up, he peels open the blind in his carpeted rest cubicle to whatever sights the train offers that day: oily rainbow smears crawling across the outside glass; frothing white masses, pearlescent clouds foaming and breaking across the train’s sides; or sometimes, pitch black with nothing but a reflection to look at in the glass. He’ll take note no matter what’s out there, then fold up his futon and wait his turn for the floor sweeper with the passengers he shares the car with. Then, he leaves for the cleaning car: the one forever-stocked with trash bags and dust mops, brushes for the seats, glass cleaners and cloth, and the purple gloves that always make his hands sweat.

Everyone cleans, though not always to Shinsuke’s standards. Atsumu still complains and swipes half-heartedly at the windows. Osamu still frowns when Shinsuke reminds him to check under the seats and their cushions. Aran's still a catalyst for more play than work, but he's still a diligent trashman in the words of the twins. Shinsuke sharpens his cleaning on his granny's absence, poring over nooks and crannies with what resembles her religious focus, even if it lacks the same feeling. He doesn’t quite linger, no. But he acknowledges the changes.

Aran lingers. “Hey,” he says, shakes the mouth of his bag wider while Shinsuke pours everything left unsaid inside it. Today, he’s young-adult and clean-shaven, still having to tilt his head down to meet Shinsuke’s eyes. His voice drops. “You sure you’re okay?”

At the concerned, conspiratory whispering, Atsumu’s sneaking peeks with a silence that doesn’t suit him. Osamu’s sticking his head under nearby seats, unprompted. Shinsuke taps his pan out once, twice into the bag, then looks down at himself.

It’s no surprise that Aran’s still asking. Each day, Shinsuke cleans; he has not grown through it since his granny left. He’s even shorter than the twins in spite of their usual spirited interplay, even younger. Stuck.

“Yes,” Shinsuke finally says. He levels his eyes on Aran’s face and reads worry. That’s stuck, too.

But then it cracks down the middle, Aran’s smile crooked and small while he reaches down to ruffle Shinsuke’s hair. He ages a little more where stray years find perch on his shoulders. “Well, you don’t have to be okay with it, alright? No one’ll mind.”

“I mind!” Atsumu butts in, too loud. His eyes gleam wet before he swipes at them with his forearm. “You’re too short to dust so I have to do it, and it’s irritating my eyes!”

Osamu snorts from his seat-side crouch. “Keep it up and you’re gonna regress back into trash.”

“I wasn’t trash, you’re trash!” Atsumu, bark bright and thick and undignified. “I was all of the potential in the bin and you were the crap no one wanted!”

“Potential what? Trashhole?”

“Potentially gonna kill you!” 

For Osamu’s efforts, Atsumu sounds less tearful, at least. Shinsuke doesn’t smile, but he settles. Watches them for another beat. Nods to Aran.

“I’m okay. Thank you.” Then, “Osamu, if you’re going to throw that, throw it into the bag. Atsumu, that spray’s for the glass, not Osamu’s face.”

They shape up quick even though he’s shorter than them, settle back into cleaning. More or less. There are, Shinsuke notes, motes of sentimentality drifting through the car. Atsumu keeps swiping at his eyes, and Osamu keeps checking back on them until Aran sighs and smiles and takes a year, claps Atsumu on the shoulder, shakes him out of it.

Shinsuke meets Osamu’s eyes every time he looks back. Sweeps what’s left unsaid into his pan.

* * *

When Shinsuke closes his eyes, the train swings on a slow pendulum. When he opens them, it falls back into its forward hum. The scenery through his cubicle window stays static, today: dense gray fog lit through with a lone crack of light, like nothing in the train can touch it, live outside it. He sits with the soles of his feet pressed together, hands clasped on either side, and tries to track for the movement he can’t see. Contemplation fills the subdued shadows in the corners of his cubicle. Muffles the rustling of the other passengers.

Shinsuke closes his eyes, stomach dropping and tickling through the swing. Opens them to heavy footsteps and that linear rush. Aran stops, futon folded in his arms, and smiles his small, crooked smile before setting up. Even with his granny gone, Shinsuke sticks to his half of the cubicle; there’s been space to fill in her absence, but he’d never considered this.

So he observes. Waits.

“Those two know where I sleep now,” Aran says, grave. He’s no-nonsense about laying his futon out, more frank than efficient. Knobby-kneed, today; he’s likely lost a few years from falling into it with Atsumu and Osamu, then. Even a younger Aran fits his futon, though, and they both know he’s welcome here. Shinsuke stays seated, facing the window, while Aran stretches out on his side and covers up. Sighs.

It’s quiet for awhile. Contemplation gives out for comfort in Shinsuke’s slouch. The fog hangs still like it’s painted onto the outside of the train, onto the insides of Shinsuke’s eyelids when he closes them to swing.

Aran shifts. Settles. His gaze has an unobtrusive weight to it. “Hey,” he says. “Those two were askin’ me earlier. About the conductor.”

Shinsuke inclines his head and listens.

“Did your gran tell you anything about ‘em?”

It’s a question with a simple answer. “No.” Opening his eyes and reaching, Shinsuke finally closes the blind to lay down, himself. His hands lace over his stomach. “They asked her to take an envelope, that’s all.”

“Huh.” After a beat Aran rolls onto his back too, hands lacing behind his head. “Wonder if we’ll get one when we go.”

To that, Shinsuke only has silence. Who’s to say what will happen when they leave?

* * *

“Can’t believe he just ran off.” 

It’s never dark enough to block out ‘Tsumu’s pouting.

“Before we even showed up, too! I wanted to see his face.” 

Never late enough to block out his whining either, to Osamu’s eternal misfortune. But Osamu tries; he rolls, gives Atsumu his back and shuts his eyes tight to it. The train rocks, slow, back and forth like it’s stuck in a lull. Makes him yawn.

As if Atsumu could take a hint. “...I bet he’s hiding out with Kita.”

Osamu sighs. Opens his eyes. The train slides straight, addles his head on its way while he rolls over and slaps out with his pillow - catches the whump of it, Atsumu’s squawk his just reward before swift, inevitable retribution. He catches pillow to the face and wrestles 'Tsumu for it, knees kicked mid-transit until it’s Osamu: 2 and Atsumu: 0. 

“Gimme back my pillow!”

Stuffing both pillows beneath him in the futon can’t save Osamu from Atsumu’s pissy onslaught, but he’s good for it. Throws his arms up to catch hands, grunts a little. Kicks a little. Holds out until ‘Tsumu’s hissing venom at him and threatening to wake up the whole car before decking him with the pillow again, this time letting him keep it.

“Don’t throw a tantrum, sheesh,” Osamu says, asserting himself as the bigger person. Then, “Let’s just find Kita’s car later. Can’t be that hard.”

Atsumu’s quiet for a sec, which probably means he’s seething and contemplating fratricide. Something like that. He’ll lose if he tries to pick up their fight and he’ll lose if he takes the bait to drop it, so Osamu’s sittin’ pretty either way.

The first concession: “I hate you. You have no class whatsoever.”

And then, finally: “Fine. Hmph.”

Rolling back over, Osamu grunts his assent and calls it done, returns to the rock of the train. It’s good, Aran running off to hide out with Kita; means Kita’s not alone, either. Reassuring. The agitation bleeds out of their cubicle, beads on the carpet for the next day’s work, and Osamu’s awareness seeps out with it.

He rests. Misses ‘Tsumu staring into the dark, brow wrinkled and eyes on the ceiling.

* * *

Each day starts like this: Osamu gets up and ‘Tsumu doesn’t. That’s because ‘Tsumu inherited literal garbage from the big bin instead of the ability to crawl out of the futon and function. 

On this day in particular, Osamu shoves at Atsumu’s hip with his foot and receives a pissed-off grunt for his efforts.

“I’m leaving,” he says.

Atsumu does another one of those pissed-off grunts, but it’s partway acknowledging; not of what he’s said, but to the fact that he’s said anything at all. This too is an undeniable, universal Atsumu fact. Osamu feels it in his guts.

For himself this time, Osamu pokes at Atsumu again with his toe. “Gonna go find Aran and Kita now. You gotta clean this up since you’re sleeping in.”

“M’coming...” But Atsumu just rolls onto his stomach, leaving Osamu to shrug off the responsibility and step over last night’s mess. Atsumu’ll bite his head off for it later, but Osamu never leaves without covering his bases; his lazier, less-skilled clone can’t say that Osamu didn’t try to get him up first. The thought tugs at his mouth. He snickers.

Lucky ‘Tsumu can’t read minds.

Most days start without Atsumu up and running, but Osamu still gets saddled with chipping in. Before he ever finds Aran or Kita, he’s usually stuck cleaning in more local cars; that’s no different, today. That Kageyama kid that ‘Tsumu likes teasing has the dust mop, and his slow-moving, lank-haired friend has the hand broom and dustpan. Windows aren’t so bad, so Osamu takes a leaf from slow kid’s book and kills time. 

Osamu’s plodded along to the last few windows by the time Atsumu stomps into the car, honing in on him like a missile. The other two have already left; no witnesses means...

Ugly disdain face from Atsumu, both a privilege and a secret. “Why didn’t you wake me up?!”

Yeah, it’s always this part of the day that makes Osamu question his life.

“I did,” he says, tone flat. “You didn’t get up.”

Why’s he stuck with the forever-knowledge of such a troublesome guy? And they’re related - what’s up with that?

Atsumu swipes the washcloth from his hand to swat him with it. “You left me to clean up everything, too! I thought we were finding Kita’s car today?”

Seriously, it’s worse than related; ‘Tsumu is his twin. Same face. He’s gotta be twice as good as ‘Tsumu to redeem all of these bad associations.

“You didn’t get up,” Osamu says instead. Again. He swipes the cloth back to wipe up the glass. “And we are. I’m still here, aren’t I?”

They haven’t even lived on this train that long and ‘Tsumu still finds thousands of reasons to ride his ass. Most of those reasons? Not even his fault.

Atsumu crosses his arms and exhales through flared nostrils. Osamu wants to hold up a mirror so ‘Tsumu can see how hard it is to take him seriously when he’s making that face.

“You still suck. And you’re so slow! How are you not done already, jeeze, let’s go.” And like that, Atsumu yanks the spray bottle and cloth out of Osamu’s hands to finish the job himself, all restless energy. “Kita’s gonna make us clean too, at least get it over with fast,” and Osamu checks out. Wonders if Kita’s figured out how to harness Atsumu’s true cleaning abilities; that guy looks like he’s got everything figured out, even if it’s not true. 

He’s adept enough at Atsumu-interpretation to know when they’re done, when it’s time to go. Adept enough to know that, in his own way, Atsumu’s fretting about wanting to check on Kita, too. So he’s not so bad. 

Still a pain, but not the literal worst. Osamu follows him out.

* * *

Everyone’s worrying about him, Shinsuke knows, but they really don’t have to. He knows by the time he stands to fold and stow his futon that he’s alright; the floor sits farther down and Aran’s not so out of reach.

“You really lose that baby fat, huh?” Aran’s relief lightens Shinsuke while he pulls up the blind. Rushing navy rivers wend through suspended stars, and what Shinsuke can catch of his reflection overtop it has stretched and narrowed.

“I must.”

Aran laughs. “‘You must’? Man, you did - dunno why you talk like that, sometimes.”

“How else would I talk?” It’s equal parts honest curiosity and good humor, though Shinsuke’s self-aware; his delivery’s always lacking. 

Face scrunching, Aran squints at him. “I don’t really know. It’d probably weird me out if you switched it up, huh?” He laughs again and bumps Shinsuke’s shoulder on their way to the cleaning car, and Shinsuke takes it in stride. The same comfort from the day before still nips at his heels, the same lightness, and it’s hard not to appreciate Aran in these moments. He’s steady and reliable.

While they clean, Aran slips into Shinsuke’s morning near-seamlessly: already holding the pan when Shinsuke’s swept a pile to his liking, muttering up background noise while brushing down the seats, or humoring Shinsuke’s silent dissatisfaction with the dusting. It’s a different dynamic than he’s used to this early, but a simple one.

“I swear those two set me up for those stupid gags.” Aran’s wiping down the overhead storage, sullen. “They plan and they wait until they can spring ‘em on me. Why me? They’ve been here how long - and I can’t even deal with ‘em.”

He’s more or less talking _at_ Shinsuke at this point, venting without needing a response. Shinsuke hums back anyway, still buffing a scuff mark off of the floor on his hands and knees while he articulates.

“You make them laugh.” What he means is, ‘you lighten the mood’, though that’s not wholly necessary. Most of the time, the mood’s already conducive to light-hearted bantering when the twins come around; Aran complements that. But Shinsuke knows what sort of face Aran would make if he told him so, so he keeps buffing.

“Yeah, I make them laugh. They make me die inside.” Aran snorts, but there’s an exasperated grin to his tone.

“If only Aran were alive,” Osamu sighs, frowning over his shoulder as he enters.

“See?!” Aran jabs a finger at Osamu, gesticulating back at Shinsuke with his other arm.

Atsumu explodes in after him, wailing. “Sometimes I can still hear his voice!”

Shinsuke, to his credit, spares a glance on Aran’s behalf. Aran himself collapses at the waist, hands bracing on bent knees before he’s back to shaking his washcloth at them. “Are you ser - no! No, no, you stop laughing! You’re horrible!”

But Osamu and Atsumu only manage to laugh harder, high-fiving once in the thick of it. It’s more forefront than background noise now, but Shinsuke soaks it in all the same until the floor comes away gleaming under his hands. Atsumu all but pounces on him when he stands.

“Kita! You’re taller today.” Out of Atsumu’s mouth, it sounds like an accomplishment; he’s beaming at Shinsuke like he’s received a gift, and Shinsuke scratches his head over it.

“You did too.”

“Barely.” Osamu chimes in, slinking around to join them with a pointed grin. He, too, looks pleased. And taller.

Atsumu’s frown is downright civil in response. At least, for them. 

“Shut up, ‘Samu. I’m talking to Kita.”

“Yeah? I’m talking to Kita, too.”

“Will you two knock it off?” Aran cuts between them, arms hooking around their shoulders so he can jostle them together. “We’ve still got cleaning to do.”

Shinsuke concedes with a nod to Aran but looks to Osamu and Atsumu both afterward. “You can talk and clean at the same time.”

Even if it distracts them, their cleaning won’t be much worse than usual, but they surprise him.

“That’s alright,” Atsumu chirps, eyes scouring the car before he swoops up the hand broom. “We can talk more later.”

And like that, Osamu folds with him. “Yeah, later. Let’s get this over with.”

They share a short look, then Osamu dredges up a fresh washcloth and a bottle of glass cleaner while Atsumu disperses to the back row of seats. 

“What’re they up to?” Aran crosses his arms and stares after them: both of them quiet, diligent enough, and occupied. His lips purse the longer he looks.

Shinsuke shrugs. He’s not one to complain.

* * *

Osamu’s lost count of how many times Aran’s squinted their way today.

“‘Tsumu.”

Breaking out of his seat-sweeping trance, Atsumu frowns over at him. “What?” 

Not annoyed yet, thankfully; just interrupted. They’ve been in a groove since finishing the third car, so...

“You’re too quiet. Aran’s freaking out.”

Atsumu spares Aran a peek and grins. Calls, “Is your eyesight going out over there? Blinded by my radiance?”

If possible, Aran’s eyes refine into even tighter slits, his nose wrinkling with the effort until Osamu’s snickering behind his hand. But it’s not an effective dam, not for long. Not when Aran heaves in a breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, and turns his back on the two of them with an emphatic, “Why are you like this?”

“I dunno! It’s probably fate, looking this good.” ‘Tsumu ramps up the rakish charm (or what he thinks it looks like), combing his fingers back through his hair and shrugging. “Don’t feel bad if you want to stare. I understand.”

Osamu busts a gut, laughing into his elbow while Aran wilts, groans like he’s dying. Beside him, Kita doesn’t smile; he settles instead, resting on his heels and picking up lost time from the floor.

* * *

* * *

One day, gutting a Nozomi of trash, Shinsuke will graze this memory with the tips of his fingers: Osamu’s belly laughs gauzy and gossamer amidst the veils of déjà vu. Contentment bookended by Atsumu’s smirk and Aran’s frazzled overreactions. The weight of the ephemeral between his fingers.

No specific time, no specific place. His memories of those three will stretch into infinity, and the rush of passengers past the window will ring with dissonance through him - but only for that moment.

It will pass, as these moments always do, in the comfortable lull of routine; but still, Shinsuke will reach for the contentment it brought, wondering.

* * *

* * *

No matter how much more you scrounge up from the seat cushions, there’s only so much time in a day. No one can grasp ‘forever’. Still, Atsumu tries, so that means Osamu tries too. It means rediscovering the cleaning cart through the next door and trading questing stares, playing eye-tag in a ramping hurry before Kita can empty his day’s haul into the big bin. Aran lifts the lid and Atsumu shrieks at Osamu with his eyes, tearing chunks out of him for not having a plan. Aran dumps his bag and Osamu scowls, brow wrinkling with the telltale, time-honored retort of ‘you didn’t get up’.

They stab at each other another couple times. Jab each other too, all elbows. In the silence between them, tension froths and frenzies until -

“Okay, whatever you two are planning, either shut up or fess up.” Aran palms their napes then hooks them into his arms. Shakes. Frowns, equal parts suspicious and fed up. “You’ve been acting weird all day. Now you’re getting crap all over the floor again.”

To be fair, the tension wouldn’t have fallen if Aran hadn’t interrupted.

“I’m not cleaning it up,” Atsumu says in the same instance that Osamu opens with,

“You stayed at Kita’s earlier, right?”

Aran loses his grip on them entirely, his eyes just as wide and caught off guard as Atsumu’s. Go figure.

It’s Kita, however, who answers. “He did.” 

Now it’s Osamu’s turn to look gobsmacked, or at least like he has a little shame about him still. Kita pushes a broom into his hand, then turns to close Atsumu’s around the handle of the dustpan. It takes one gesture to their mess on the floor before they hop to it. That little bud of shame begins to bloom when Kita holds the big bin open for them, and Osamu’s ears warm.

He doesn’t need to look at ‘Tsumu to get the gist of what he’d find: ‘TACT, TACT, TACT, TACT!’ Like ‘Tsumu has any to spare.

“Wouldn’t have to if you weren’t creeping around my car.” Aran’s arm finds Osamu’s shoulders again, his free hand messing Atsumu’s hair while his surprise makes room for knowing. He nudges them out of the way of the other passengers en route to empty trash, and the three of them follow Kita out. “What,” Aran says, flat, “don’t tell me you want a sleepover.”

Already fussing to pet his hair back into place, ‘Tsumu pouts and bats Aran’s hand away. “You want us to tell you or not, then?”

“I don’t have enough room for four people.” Kita faces ahead, stepping into the next car. Lines of carpeted cubicles stretch ahead. Aran heaves a massive sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Kita, though, leads them to a cubicle. There’s room for two futons, just like the one Osamu shares with Atsumu, and the same plain carpet. Same boring blind lidding the window. When Kita gestures to it, there’s that unspoken ‘see?’ tacked onto his nod.

“Boo.”

Boo’s right. Osamu catches Atsumu’s eye and they shrug in the space between. It’s a bookmark for later; there’s still a conversation left to be had for the circumstances.

“I need a break,” Aran huffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figure it out. I’ll see you guys later.” He waves to Kita and claps them on the shoulders when he passes.

Kita waves once at Aran’s back and nods down the hall. Walks.

Osamu looks to Atsumu. Catches Atsumu looking to him. They pick up their feet and trail after Kita in unison, shuffling all the way to a seating car and twisting their seats to face Kita’s. 

With his hands folded in his lap and his eyes on the window, Kita looks cool. Resembles some kind of mob boss, Osamu thinks; pristine and untouchable. It’s an odd image to reconcile with the ready familiarity in his chest. Not with the willingness to follow, but with the stretching sensation of knowing Kita in ways that Osamu has yet to prove.

* * *

Shinsuke’s familiar with the Miya poker face. On Atsumu, it’s a half-cocked smirk and a strut to match. On Osamu, it’s a flatness. Atsumu’s not trying for cocky here between fidgeting with his fingers and letting his attention skitter from Osamu to him and back again, but Osamu’s too disaffected, too lax in his seat to come across as genuine. He’s sweating.

Faintly, Shinsuke smiles. Osamu’s slack fingers curl towards his palms and Atsumu sits straighter when it clicks: part of him is letting them steep for the fun of it. It’s not a situation he indulges often. His smile spreads a little longer.

“Ugh, what’s that face for?” True to form, Atsumu loses his patience first as he leans forward, hands braced on his knees. “It looks freaky! Worse than Tobio’s.” And like that, Atsumu jams his back into the seat and folds his arms tight over his chest, slouching.

When Osamu deigns to snicker, Atsumu snaps a glare at him. 

“It’s just my face,” Shinsuke interrupts, letting his smile ebb and melt. His fingers find his scalp, scratch there idly. No need to hesitate if they refuse to lead, after all. “Did you expect the cleaning to butter me up for an answer?”

“Maybe!” Atsumu, exasperated.

“Not really.” Osamu, shrugging. “But we figured we’d give you a break.”

Beside Osamu, Atsumu softens in spite of his frown. “And follow you back instead of asking.”

They weather Shinsuke’s impassive studying in the moment. He laces his fingers on his lap, inclining his chin toward them. Aran had mentioned their questions. With the way they’d been acting, too...

“Well,” he leads, resolute, “you mentioned wanting to talk.” Hands opening, Shinsuke widens them in invitation. They’re the only ones taking up this corner of the car; it’s as ideal of a situation as they’ll have. “I’m free.”

Atsumu bites his lip. Glances again at Osamu, who crosses his arms too and says nothing. “Your granny,” Atsumu says, stopping to swallow. “She really just...up and left?”

“Yes.” As far as Shinsuke could tell; he hasn’t seen her since they’d last laid in their futons. He holds Atsumu’s eyes with a level stare of his own, holds Atsumu’s open mouth on pause. “She said her stop was coming the next day and had an envelope to deliver. She was gone before I got up.”

Atsumu’s mouth shuts. He and Osamu confer with their eyes.

“This train really stops, huh?” Osamu, this time, lips twisted off to one side while he redirects his stare to the ceiling. 

To that, Shinsuke tilts his head.

“Not when I’m aware.” But it’s still a train, his common sense tells him; trains have stops. No one becomes a passenger without that basic level of knowledge, though Shinsuke’s never fussed over the comings and goings of passengers. His granny had been the first person involved in his life who’d left. Someday, it’d be his turn. That meant, eventually, he’d catch the train stopping.

“So...the conductor?”

Shinsuke answers Atsumu without missing a beat. “At the back of the train.”

* * *

* * *

One day, when Osamu trades ‘Kita’ in for ‘Shin’, Osamu will finally pin down what bothers him about taking trains. No matter how far the commute or whether or not they share the same train, he frets. Frets that one day, if he’s not looking, Shin’ll hop off without him.

* * *

* * *

“Where do you think we’ll stop?”

Though it’s been a quiet while since talking to Kita, the question still nags at Osamu. Especially when he’s laying down. There’s nothing to do but think until suddenly he’s coming to, instead. 

Beside him, Atsumu rolls onto his stomach. The blurred crosshatch of grays filling their window glints off his eyes with its dim light. This kind of company’s become more and more frequent, just waiting in the dark until one of them voices what the other’s thinking... They haven’t chewed each other out in a while.

“No idea.” Atsumu answers after a pause. His pillow muffles his voice, but not its uncertainty. “Think we’ll leave at the same stop?”

“Dunno.”

Quiet. Atsumu leans up onto his elbows just to flop back down, the whump of his body breaking it. Sounds frustrated. 

“We’d better end up somewhere fun. Somewhere I don’t have to clean every day.”

Osamu grunts in agreement, a half-smile finding him in the dark. “Somewhere to run around.”

“Somewhere with stuff to do.” The frustration simmers down. ‘Tsumu huffs.

“Somewhere where you get up on your own.”

“Hey! I already do.”

“Somewhere,” Osamu continues, bulldozing on, “with those two.”

Aran and Kita. ‘Tsumu stops his fussing, settles down with his arms nested around his face. Already, he’s lost that combative spark. Osamu feels the teases drain right out of him, too.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says. Agrees. Pauses. “And you, I guess. To bother Aran.”

A piece of Osamu eases as the quiet relents, no longer so oppressive at the fringes of their futons. When he looks, the glint from Atsumu’s eyes has gone; he’s shut them. 

“Yeah,” Osamu mumbles. It’s almost soft enough to keep to himself. “Sounds good.”

* * *

In time, things settle. Aran’s always around for a good laugh. Kita’s there, their structure and their backbone. Atsumu starts complaining about the cleaning again, little by little, though he works harder at it too. Occasionally, he disappears off on his own and Osamu lets him have the privacy.

Means he gets to have some of his own.

With the cleaning tied up for the day and Atsumu off to hound someone else - that Kageyama, if he had to take a guess - Osamu wanders the seating cars to people watch. Most of the faces he finds don’t ping as familiar, and though he recognizes some, most aren’t so intimate that Osamu feels the need to veer off and talk to them yet. No one’s an Aran or Atsumu.

No one’s a Kita either, but Osamu notices the real deal a few cars deep in a window seat. He doesn’t bat an eye when Osamu slinks over to join him but acknowledges him with a nod hello; good enough for him. It’s nice to share a quiet that isn’t loaded with meaning, every once and awhile. Helps that Kita’s back to his old self, too; he’s a post-clean kind of old, mature. Settled in. Head’s still kind of egg-shaped no matter what, though.

Osamu smiles about it to himself, tucking his mouth against his hand to lean and watch the scenery. Wet red beads with matching petals cluster around the windows, tunneling out toward a center of shifting, liquid gold. This is the first time Osamu’s ever had Kita to himself, so he savors it.

In time, this too settles into a habit. A comfortable one. But he’s slow on the uptake for how this habit cultivates him like Kita’s daily maturation over scrubbing the floor or sweeping the seats.

It’s just that one day, Kita studies him instead of the window and breaks their no-expectations silence. Says, “You’ve been getting taller,” like he’s marking the growth of his garden. He sounds pleased. Settled.

Osamu ekes out another centimeter over the gratification alone, then lords it over Atsumu as soon as they catch up with one another.

Kita makes him glow.

* * *

Each day starts like this: Shinsuke comes alive and alert in slow, steady increments until the rush and drone of the train registers. 

He’s written his routine in perseverance and small accomplishments, the gratification that they bring. In fact, Shinsuke can’t remember a time that he hasn’t followed it: checking the window, starting to clean, and putting himself to task in a day’s work. It’s menial but worthwhile. He’s never strayed.

Once he's up, he peels open the blind in his carpeted rest cubicle to whatever sights the train offers that day. 

But he stops. Stares. Then, with a breath, Shinsuke pulls his blind shut again and steals a glance at his neighbor’s window while he accepts the floor sweeper. Once is all it takes. 

Making brisk work of cleaning his cubicle before putting the rest car behind him, Shinsuke soothes himself with the familiar snap of gloves down his hands. If need be, he could navigate the cleaning car with his eyes closed and still leave with the necessary supplies, and today he may as well have.

He cleans, sinking into routine while he waits on the others.

Aran’s first, as he often is, and Shinsuke commits him to memory like this: easygoing in his hello, one arm up while he bites back a yawn.

“Don’t look at me like that, man,” Aran says, shaking his head. “You look like you wanna clean me. Like some kind of cleaning robot. Is there something on my face?” He’s already wiping his brow with the back of his forearm.

Shinsuke laughs despite himself. “No.”

At that, Aran relaxes. He stoops to grab Shinsuke’s dustpan, and like that they’re back to baseline. “Just on the warpath today or what?”

“Yeah.” Shinsuke takes up the broom and guides his pile of what’s lost into the pan. They clean, sinking into routine while they wait on the others.

Osamu shows up first, but today Atsumu isn’t so long behind him while he scrubs at his eyes. 

“Aran should wake me up in the mornings,” he starts, launching into the usual fare of complaints, “‘cause you suck at it.”

Aran’s “no way!” flattens whatever quip Osamu fires back, but it’s enough to send Atsumu grinning and prodding Aran’s nerves. Shinsuke drinks it in while he details the grooves in the armrests, and Osamu’s tending to his next row before long.

“Hey,” he greets, and Shinsuke nods over to him. It’s comfortable, what they’ve fostered. He’ll miss this. He’ll miss it all, but no amount of memories should bar them from moving forward.

Granny’s out there, and Shinsuke’s sure to join her. The conductor, after all, hadn’t gestured outside of his neighbor’s window; only his own.

* * *

Aran finds him in the rest car later, as Shinsuke had asked. He hesitates because it’s unusual, Shinsuke knows; he never asks for much, but sometimes it’s the asking at all that sets strange expectations. But Aran sits across from him all the same, only noting the window in passing before his attention falls on Shinsuke in full.

“So what’s up?”

Drawing the envelope from the well of his crossed legs, Shinsuke slides it across the floor between them. It’s perfect and flat, a mild shade of eggshell blue with an indecipherable scrawl mapping its face. Unopened. Between his fingers, it’d felt empty but warm to the touch.

“My stop,” he says, simple. “It’s tomorrow.”

Gently, Aran’s broad hands pick the envelope up by its corners; Shinsuke feels them on his face, feather-light points at each temple and both sides of his jaw. His eyes begin to well while this massive feeling threatens to spill, and Aran stares at the envelope. It’s huge and here and in him, not that envelope. What the conductor had given him, had asked him to take. A path forward on his own two legs.

Shinsuke cries like his eyes covet each drop, his tears ponderous and blinding. Aran’s thumbs trace the paper and he feels it still, but he sets the envelope aside to scoot to Shinsuke’s side, slinging an arm over his shoulders.

“That’s great, Kita,” he says, hand clasping Shinsuke’s far shoulder. His voice is light and warm. “It’s about time. You happy?”

He is. Unbelievably so.

A thick, hiccuping sob that isn’t his own tugs Shinsuke’s ear, and Aran shifts without moving away. But it’s not Aran sobbing.

“You’re leaving?” It’s Atsumu and two sets of feet padding across his carpet.

Shinsuke blinks through his tears as Atsumu throws his arms around him from the front and sniffs hard around Aran’s laughter. It’s a lot of limbs in one place, but Shinsuke lays one hand on Atsumu’s back and pats. A livelier thump consoles Atsumu higher up, and Aran’s voice follows.

“Come on, it’s not like you won’t catch up.”

A touch skirts across his nose. His eyes keep leaking no matter how much he does or doesn’t blink, and Atsumu’s determined about soaking his shoulder with tears and garbled complaints about how it’s too dusty in here, which is silly. But he lets it pass.

“Tomorrow?” Osamu has to speak up with Atsumu so close to his ear, but Shinsuke hears him. He swallows around the sensation of stretching his seams.

“Yes.”

Osamu’s fingers map the face of the envelope, ghosting over Shinsuke’s cheekbones and the ridge of his brow. His back’s starting to sweat beneath Aran’s arm, but it keeps him upright under Atsumu’s weight. It’s the most touching he’s ever received all at once, but Shinsuke closes his eyes and accepts it to the rocking of the train.

He’s happy. Not everyone can fit so much affection into such a cramped space.

* * *

There really isn’t enough room for four futons in Kita’s cubicle, but it’s fine if they all sit. That’s how Atsumu finally falls into a fitful rest: propped up under Aran’s arm and drooling on his chest, the picture of unflattering. Aran’s shored up in one corner with his legs stretched long when he drops off, and Osamu’s waiting finally, finally pays off.

He looks to Kita. Watches Kita watch the window with his knees tucked up and his shoulder leaned against the glass. Ducks his head to study the envelope in his hands one more time before standing and stretching with it, then dropping to sit closer.

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Take it.”

It takes a moment for Kita to peel away from the window, but he does. Long enough to take the envelope back. Long enough for Osamu to twitch under the scrutiny, but then Kita reaches over and rests his hand on Osamu’s knee. He’s got cold fingers. It’s a fine excuse for laying his hand over Kita’s once he gathers his nerve, and Kita’s lips quirk while he stares out the window.

“Do you want to know where I’m going?” Kita asks, his tone polished and low. It’s a secret-sharing tone, one he’s used to bouncing back and forth with Atsumu when it’s late. Not as conspiratory, but...generous. Mild.

Like he’s offering for Osamu’s sake.

“Sure,” Osamu says, trying for cool and falling short. He squeezes Kita’s hand without thinking, and Kita takes a slow, roving look around them: where Atsumu’s practically melting down Aran’s body, glacial in his slide, and Osamu; where their hands, overlapping, lay.

“I’m finding you all again.”

Osamu knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’ll tease ‘Tsumu relentlessly for crying once it’s safe to do so. He’s always liked having a leg up on that butthead, always will. Still, that doesn’t change that they’re made of the same stuff, and Osamu’s tears feel about the same as Atsumu’s looked when they surge and sting his eyes.

“Not if we find you first,” he strains, and Kita’s little laugh catches them both off guard.

“Okay,” Kita says, simple.

He’s gone by the time that Osamu stirs and realizes that somewhere, his crying had stopped. All that’s left of him is a promise by the window and a wayward curl of tenacity.

* * *

* * *

When Shinsuke’s born, she accepts him for the gift he is and sweeps him beneath her wing. A grandmother. Her grandson. He’s more than she could hope for, this steady-headed child that listens and learns like he’d waited all his life to do it.

An old soul watched her from behind those eyes, of that she had no doubts.

The thought puts a smile on her face as she picks up her knitting and waits for Shinsuke’s train to arrive. Today, he’s promised to bring his friends along, and she finds that she simply can’t wait to meet them.

After all, it’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, Lark! I remember wondering if you'd be my giftee before assignments were sent out, and lo and behold - you were! Here's my gift to you, both for the holidays and for reblogging the post that landed me here in the first place. I hope that you enjoy it half as much as I've enjoyed your contributions to the fandom.


End file.
